


Bob Bryar is Easy (Not Like That)

by mwestbelle



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p> asked for Bob/Patrick domesticfic for her birthday, so here that is.  It's really quick and kind of sloppy, but I wanted to get it done for you asap bb ♥ I hope you like it</p><p>(Originally posted February 26, 2009)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Bob Bryar is Easy (Not Like That)

**Author's Note:**

> asked for Bob/Patrick domesticfic for her birthday, so here that is. It's really quick and kind of sloppy, but I wanted to get it done for you asap bb ♥ I hope you like it
> 
> (Originally posted February 26, 2009)

Bob and Patrick don't fight. It's nice, because Bob comes back to the apartment after listening to Ray and Gerard argue over chord progressions for nearly an hour before realizing they both want the same thing anyway, and Patrick comes back after spending the whole day having shouting matches with Pete, and throwing things at walls, and generally being _angry_. Maybe they're just really good roomies, or maybe they're both just totally raged out by the time they get home, but whenever there's something to fight about, they just...don't.

Patrick knows that he has a lot of anger--possibly stemming from a Napoleon complex--but he never lets it out on Bob. Sometimes Bob leaves empty cans sitting around, and Patrick is a huge slob but he has this _thing_ about stuff you eat or drink from, and he could get a really good rant going about it, maybe throw the can at Bob's head or save them up and dump them on his bed. But for some reason, he just picks one up when he finds it and chucks it in their recycling bin.

Sometimes when Bob gets home, Patrick is already on the couch, watching the most mindless television he can find, trying to get beats and chords and words out of his head. Bob usually kicks off his shoes and walks over to drop down next to him. They watch in silence, until Bob shifts to pull off his hoodie. Patrick never looks over to see if his shirt rides up, showing a thick middle with a little blonde hair. Never.

One night, Patrick gets home late, after shouting himself raw, and Bob is sitting on the couch, already tuned into a America's Next Top Model marathon. Patrick drops everything he's carrying just inside the door--he'll get it later--and goes and flops onto the couch, a little closer to Bob than usual. He can't bring himself to move; every inch of him is exhausted.

Bob shifts, and their shoulders brush. One of the girls on the show is afraid of heights and starts crying. Patrick would demand to know what the fuck she expected, they _always_ do a height-based challenge, but he's tired. And then Bob's hand is on the back of his neck, before Patrick even registers him moving, and, okay. This is weird, it's totally out of the blue, but it feels good. Whatever, if Bob wants to give him a backrub, thumb working at the knots in his shoulders, he's not going to turn it down.

It's slow. Patrick hasn't thought (much) about what it would be like, hooking up with Bob. Bob's a cool guy, but he's Patrick's roommate, and that's just not okay. You don't think about hooking up with the guy who hears you sing in the shower every morning and who you see walking around in threadbare boxers on Sunday mornings, grumbling and texting his lead singer. Except that Patrick does, and he's always imagined Bob would be...kind of the stereotypical viking/lumberjack type who would just burst in and take what he wanted and, okay, if these imaginings ( _not_ fantasies) involved Bob wearing leather or copious amounts of plaid, that's totally coincidental, as is the fact that Patrick might really like the idea of being taken.

But it's not like that at all. Bob massages his shoulders for nearly half the show, while Patrick watches the girls get their make-up done and try to walk in treacherous heels. And then Bob's hand is on his bicep, and then his side, and then it's cupped over his dick. He's already hard, and Bob grunts. Patrick thinks it sounds disturbingly like the grunt Bob usually makes when he opens the fridge in the morning to find that no one has broken in during the night and stolen their frozen toaster pastries. But nothing can really be disturbing when Bob's hand is heavy and warm on the front of his jeans.

"This cool?" Bob asks, voice lower than normal and a little rough, and Patrick wants to laugh. He does, actually, an incredulous chuckle because. Seriously?

If Bob can be so nonchalant about it, so can he. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

"Good." There's no reason for the word to lodge itself in Patrick's chest before slipping down to settle hot in his belly. It does, though, and Bob undoes his jeans, and then Bob Bryar is jerking him off on their couch while Tyra scolds some crying girl with sticks for arms about not being fierce enough.

Bob's hand is big, and Patrick refuses to think of it as a paw, except it's so big and warm, wrapped around his dick and moving with unhurried ease. There's something to be said for this, a slow, easy handjob on the couch after a long day. Patrick's reminded of the time he had sex with Pete (he was sixteen, and Pete was lonely, and Joe and Andy were _somewhere_ , and it was messy and desperate and awkward and they both wiped their hands off on the slippery polyester comforter and swore never to speak of it again) in the sense that this is nothing like that at all. This is...comfortable.

He's not really paying attention, which is stupid, because he comes before he's ready to, before he's really able to savor getting jerked off by Bob Bryar on their couch. He flushes afterward, but Bob just shrugs and wipes his hand across Patrick's belly, smearing come on his t-shirt.

"Fuck you, man," Patrick says, cheeks red. "I was going to wear this tonight."

Bob arches his eyebrows and laughs. "You're not going anywhere. We're going to order Chinese, and watch another four hours of Tyra's shitass weaves, and somewhere in there you're going to blow me."

Patrick's mouth goes dry, and he licks his lips without thinking. "I am?" He doesn't miss how Bob's eyes watch his tongue.

"Yeah. And then we'll go to bed, and cuddle like losers, and we'll fuck in the shower in the morning, and then again after breakfast, and we'll go to the studio late and covered in hickeys and fucking _sated_ , and all our bandmates will make fun of us. But we won't care." Patrick thinks that plan sounds like the best plan he's ever heard in his life. He nods blankly, and Bob grins, bright and just as easy as anything else tonight. "Because we're going to do it all over again tomorrow."

"Sounds good," Patrick says, nodding again. "As long as we get to do it again the day after."

"We're going to be doing it again," Bob tells him, still smiling and hooking his arm around Patrick's shoulders, "for a really fucking long time."


End file.
